


Ride & Dye

by nightbirdrises



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbirdrises/pseuds/nightbirdrises
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine's a Skank. Kurt's reputation as one of McKinley's toughest loners precedes him. Their first, ahem, <i>date</i>, doesn't go as anyone could have planned or expected from the two of them - but perhaps it will be for the best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ride & Dye

**Author's Note:**

> [Ann](slightestwind.tumblr.com) and I got to talking about skank!blaine/badboy!kurt and agreed it was something that needed to be done. That's... pretty much the only thing that started this. ([tumblr](http://princehummel.tumblr.com/post/76402003996))
> 
> warnings: (implied underage) smoking, implied underage drinking, mention/description of past experiences with homophobic harassment & some lingering effects of such. aside from that, this is pretty feel-good, I think.

"He’s so into you, Andy."

"For the last time, don’t call me that," Blaine groans, tipping his head back against one of the metal support beams underneath the bleachers. "It’s a fucking stupid nickname."

"I think it fits," Quinn says after taking a drag from her cigarette. Blaine eyes it with a mixture of envy and disdain; he’s trying to quit by graduation next year, but it doesn’t really do much for him when he spends almost all of his time around someone who still smokes.

"Yeah, maybe if I was some idiotic goody two-shoes." Quinn side-eyes him. 

"Like you aren’t one of those at heart," she says with a smirk. "Not idiotic, though. Just too damn good for your own good, and I still say that that Hummel guy likes you."

"Does not. No one even knows if he’s gay, no one knows a thing about him."

"They know he hangs out at that gay bar in West Lima, he doesn’t hide it either. What else could that mean?"

"Maybe he’s just not into labels. Or he doesn’t give a shit."

"The latter sounds more like it," Quinn muses, appearing genuinely thoughtful. Blaine scowls at her; he doesn’t want her to get any ideas, he’s perfectly fine with being single. The problem is that he is definitely  _interested_  in Kurt Hummel — for reasons he can’t even fucking explain. It’s ridiculous to think that Kurt would ever deign to pity-fuck a Skank, much less actually fall into an established routine of it.

Blaine refuses to think of it as dating; Kurt doesn’t seem the type to go for that, anyway. He also refuses to dwell on the slight pang that that gives him. He’s interested in Kurt purely for sexual reasons, fantasies and the like. That’s it.

"No," Quinn says, jolting Blaine from his head, "he’s so gay. I know it."

"Whatever you say, Fabray." Quinn rolls her eyes.

"Rhyming isn’t cute on you."

"Everything’s cute on me. I distinctly remember you saying something like that last week while you were trashed. Maybe  _you’re_  the one that’s into me.”

"Fuck off or else I’m calling you Andy until I graduate." Blaine puts his hands up in mock-surrender, grinning. "Hey look, it’s your admirer."

"I  _don’t have a_ —”

Quinn shuts him up by jabbing an elbow into his shoulder, causing him to let out a none-too-intimidating yelp. He glares at her, but then a movement at the corner of his eye catches his attention. Passing by in the dull light of the cloudy October day is none other than Kurt Hummel — he hasn’t seen them underneath the bleachers, but then again, that’s kind of the point of being under here: to not be seen.

"You should go catch up, ask him out."

"Are you kidding me? He’d bite my head off."

"Either that or he’ll give you head," Quinn says. "Might be worth the risk."

"I can’t believe you. No, I’m not going anywhere."

"Fine, I’ll go."

"Wait—" It’s too late; Quinn’s already tossing her cigarette down, stomping on it as she heads out towards Kurt, who seems to be skulking just around the corner of the bleachers. Blaine groans; this is a disaster waiting to happen. Kurt doesn’t just… _talk_ to people, especially not people like him and Quinn. The Skanks are low on the McKinley food chain, and the only thing that separates them from the other groups at their level is their complete apathy towards high school social rules in general. Kurt, who associates with football receiver Noah Puckerman on occasion and is known for his determination not to let anyone fuck with him, is on another plane of high school existence entirely.

In other words, he’s most likely going to find them pitiful for trying this. And fuck it, that’s not how Blaine wants to be seen by  _anyone_.

"Hummel," Quinn calls, Blaine walking quickly to catch up in hopes of stopping her. "Don’t give me that look, I have a question for you."

"Oh, really?" Blaine hears Kurt ask. He sounds amused. "Well, go ahead. Shoot."

"Are you or are you not gay?"

Blaine stops, suddenly very unwilling to show himself around the corner. Instead he leans into metal and listens, hard, for he can’t help but be curious no matter how stupid Quinn is being right now. He can hear Kurt laugh and flushes, though for what reason he doesn’t know.

"What if I am?" Kurt asks. "I doubt you’re asking for yourself. Everyone knows it’s Puckerman you’re still pining after—"

"Keep talking and you’ll be pining after your own dick this time tomorrow," Quinn snaps; Blaine has to admit that he admires her bravery. Few people would dare talk to Kurt Hummel like that, afraid he’ll retaliate somehow. Blaine can’t recall, however, a single instance in which Kurt has been known to be violent. His words are his weapons. "Just give me an answer."

"Fine, I’m gay. Why is this so important?"

"No reason," Quinn says simply. "You can go back to your brooding."

"Hold on. That Anderson kid is one of you, isn’t he?" Blaine’s breath hitches — though he’ll never admit it — and he listens harder. Fuck, he wishes he could see Kurt’s face so he could try to read his expression. Blaine can’t tell if being "that Anderson kid" is a good thing or not just from his tone.

"Yeah, why?"

"He’s gay."

"And?"

Kurt chuckles. “I’m not a complete idiot, whatever else you think of me. He wanted to know, didn’t he?”

"I’m trying to prove a point to him," Quinn says evasively, and Blaine silently thanks her for not going off on the "crush" and "admirer" stuff in front of Kurt. "Not everyone wants to suck your dick, believe it or not."

"Would he refuse me?" Blaine can imagine Kurt now, a pierced eyebrow raised in challenge. Arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips, a wicked gleam clear in his eyes.

"You’ll have to ask him yourself."

"Don’t mind if I do."

Blaine has no warning except for a few footsteps; suddenly Kurt’s coming around the corner, gaze fixed on the space underneath the bleachers. But Blaine takes in a sharp breath and Kurt’s head turns to him.

"Well, look who’s eavesdropping," Kurt says in a low voice, his smirk in place as usual. There’s a chill in the air, so he’s wearing his trademark leather jacket — his other go-to is a sleeveless one that is probably the bane of Blaine’s existence considering how he can’t stop staring at Kurt’s arms when he wears it. And, of course, Kurt has his usual fingerless gloves and those chains around his neck. "Nice hair."

Blaine narrows his eyes, unsure if it’s a genuine compliment or a barely-veiled insult. He’d just gotten some streaks of blue dye in his hair last week at Quinn’s insistence, and he has grown attached to the way it looks. He glances around for Quinn, but she’s nowhere to be seen —  _damn her_.

"So," Kurt continues when it’s clear that Blaine won’t say anything, "you wanted to know if the rumors were true."

"Out of curiosity," Blaine says shortly.

"Right. You’re not even remotely interested in what I could do for you."

"Like you’d ever do a damn thing for me," Blaine scoffs. Kurt meets his gaze and Blaine — stops breathing for a moment, but hopefully it’s not noticeable.

"You seem so sure of yourself, Blaine," Kurt mutters, stepping closer and into Blaine’s space. Blaine expects to smell smoke on his breath, but it’s the sharp coolness of spearmint instead.

"What happened to ‘that Anderson kid?’" Blaine asks just to keep himself talking even as Kurt gets closer.

"I like your first name better," Kurt says with a careless shrug. "But tell me: what makes you so confident that I wouldn’t take you home?"

"Please. If anyone found out—"

"You really don’t know a single thing about me," Kurt says softly, his hands coming to rest, gentle, on Blaine’s waist. "Let me take you somewhere private."

"Class isn’t over yet."

Kurt arches an eyebrow. “Unless you’re currently taking a class on bleacher construction, I don’t think it matters.”

Blaine can’t help it; he huffs out a laugh. “Okay, you got me. I don’t have a car, though.”

"I’ve got us covered."

Kurt begins to walk off in the direction of the parking lot, but Blaine stops him, panic welling up deep inside him. “It’s— We’re taking a car, right?”

"You know I don’t drive a car, just a motorcycle," Kurt says slowly. "Does it matter?"

Blaine swallows, takes a deep breath. He’s about to get laid by fucking Kurt Hummel, there’s no way he can let this stop him now. “No. It’s fine. My house is empty, by the way.”

Kurt watches him for a second more and nods. “That’s way better than a disgusting bathroom stall at a bar, at least.”

A few minutes later finds them in the parking lot, Kurt’s motorcycle just yards away and getting closer. Blaine eyes it apprehensively. From an aesthetic standpoint, Kurt driving one of these things around is indescribably hot. Putting himself in the picture, though, changes how he feels. Unfortunately, now he can’t exactly back out without having to explain himself. God, what would Kurt  _say_?

So he musters up as much of a sultry expression as he can when Kurt glances at him, and it seems to be successful.

"Am I even going to fit?" Blaine asks dubiously (mostly he’d like to delay getting on the stupid thing until he’s had time to mentally prepare). Kurt swings his leg over and stands, straddling the bike and holding a hand out to Blaine.

"Trust me, you’ll be fine," he says, his voice not as sharp as Blaine’s used to hearing. "Come up here."

"Should be wearing helmets," Blaine mutters, letting Kurt pull him up. He fits, but there isn’t much room; he has no choice but to be pressed crotch-to-ass against Kurt. It makes him feel a little better and a lot turned on, but if he starts reacting negatively the way he has in the past, there’s no way Kurt won’t notice.

"You okay?"

"Just fine."

"Hold on tight, then," Kurt says, starting up the motorcycle with a loud roar that makes Blaine flinch and grab too-tight at Kurt’s waist.

"I’m so fucked," Blaine says to himself under the sound of the vehicle. It’s so stupid, how the panic returns and spikes as they take off, slowly at first then faster once they hit the road. He can’t help the shaking once it starts, and he’s too worried about Kurt noticing to wonder how the guy even knows where he lives.

He’s also too withdrawn to realize that Kurt’s turning off into a back alley behind some bars and shops in downtown Lima until the motorcycle slows and comes to a stop next to a dumpster, the rumbling sound of it lingering too long in his head after it dies out.

"…walk," Kurt’s saying, and Blaine inhales sharply — a big mistake, given the awful smell.

"What? Why did we stop?"

"We’ll walk the rest of the way," Kurt says, breaking out of Blaine’s grip as he gets off the bike. He faces Blaine, hands in his pockets. Blaine doesn’t make eye contact but gets down as well, quiet and sure that he’s fucked up everything by being that scared boy he used to be. "Look at me, Blaine."

"Huh?" Blaine looks up, meets Kurt’s eyes.

"Is there a reason you didn’t tell me you don’t do well with these?" he asks, tapping the seat of the motorcycle.

"I was fine."

"You were trembling."  _Damn it._

"It’s cold." Kurt gives him a look that clearly says  _stop bullshitting me_  and he clears his throat. “It’s nothing, really.”

"I can wait all day for you to get your shit together and tell me."

"My stupid shit isn’t worth yours or anyone else’s time," Blaine bites out. "Just forget it, find some guy in a bar to take home."

"Yeah, like I’m gonna leave you like this. Come on, spill." Kurt’s staring at him, hard, and something in Blaine snaps.

"Okay, fine! A few weeks after I came out, some  _fucking_  guys on  _fucking_  motorcycles followed me home after school every day for two months, telling me I was a useless fag and they wanted to tie me onto one of their bikes to drop me off in the middle of nowhere and worse. When I finally said something back, they beat the shit out of me in front of my own house. I was in eighth fucking grade and I still can’t handle hearing or even thinking about being on one of those things, and I  _hate_  that. Does that answer your question?”

Blaine turns on his heel and starts off down the dirty backroad. He’s not sure where he is in relation to his house at the moment, but he’ll figure it out eventually. He can hear Kurt calling after him but he ignores him, shoving his hands into his pockets and swearing when he remembers that there’s a hole in the left pocket of his torn jeans.

He’s trying to decide whether to go left or right at the end of the road when he hears footsteps.

"You walk fucking fast, you know that?" Kurt asks, his voice clear from behind Blaine.

"Leave me alone," Blaine says, low.

"No."

Blaine glares at Kurt as he comes up on his right side. “Why not?”

"Because I want to walk with you."

"I don’t need—"

"You’re also going the wrong way." Blaine grunts and turns around without another word. Kurt follows.

"I don’t need a bodyguard."

"That’s what the getup is for, isn’t it?"

"What?"

Blaine sees Kurt smile a bit ruefully out of the corner of his eye. “The hair, that nose ring, the torn clothes, it’s for protection, right? If you’re a badass, no one messes with you.”

"Oh, and that’s your story too, is it?" Blaine says, rolling his eyes. "Someone called you a fag and you went straight to the mall to buy a leather jacket."

"No, someone called my dad and told him his son was one. I wasn’t out, but I’m not the kind of person to be subtle anyway. This started because I didn’t want him to have to deal with that again, and it kept going because I liked it. Take a right."

"Oh. I’m sorry."

"It’s no big deal. I really do like your hair, by the way."

"Thanks."

"And I do still want to fuck you. Not today, but one day."

Blaine snorts a little and can’t hide a small smile. “I appreciate that.”

"Unless today’s still on the table," Kurt continues, bumping shoulders with Blaine. "Your house is empty, after all."

"Who are you?"

"Kurt Hummel?"

"No, you’re just—" Blaine gestures vaguely at him. "You’re different than you were a bit ago. I can’t put a finger on it."

"Because I like you, I won’t make a crude joke about fingering right now. Uh—" Kurt’s eyes go wide and, for a moment, Blaine spots the young boy he used to be.

"Come again?" he asks, his smile spreading. "You like me?"

"Fuck you, no I don’t."

"Quinn was right," Blaine says, mostly to himself. Kurt groans.

"I don’t  _like_  you, Anderson, I just… you know, think you’re cute.”

"Cute."

"I meant fuckable."

"Sure you did."

Kurt glares at him but there’s no real heat behind it so Blaine lets himself grin back, feeling giddy. Which, he shouldn’t be feeling like this, he’s had his share of a few guys that he’d met here and there, but those had always been one-time things. This doesn’t feel like a one-time thing.

"We’re home," Kurt says, stopping on the sidewalk. "Your home, I mean."

Blaine nods and starts towards the door, but he turns back when he realizes that Kurt isn’t following him. “Did you want to…”

"I don’t know if it’d be appropriate," Kurt says quietly, scuffing his boot. "Not that I usually give a fuck, but the whole bike thing— I’d rather be sure you’re okay before anything happens."

"I’m—"  _fine_ , Blaine starts to say, but he knows it isn’t true. He’ll need some time to recover, even if he doesn’t feel particularly shaken anymore. The idea of losing this opportunity to be with Kurt, however, doesn’t sit well with him. Whatever; there will be other guys. But none of them will be Kurt. “Okay, sure.”

Kurt gives him that smirk again, but this time it’s paired with something unmistakably genuine in his eyes. As Blaine’s trying to decide what to say next, Kurt makes three strides and tugs Blaine to his chest by his hoodie, his lips catching Blaine’s cheek before they’re kissing — hard, urgent, but not necessarily hungry or desperate. There’s something gentle about it, actually.

Before Blaine can work it out through the haze of  _oh my god Kurt Hummel kissed me_ (which is absolutely not what he’s thinking… not at all), they stop, breathing heavily with Kurt’s hands still fisting the sweater.

"Didn’t want you to go without a taste," Kurt says, speaking first as he backs away. He puts his hands back in his pockets and smiles a bit sheepishly. "Feel better, alright?"

"Yeah, thanks." Blaine debates internally for a moment and, just as Kurt’s turning away, he says, "I’ll get another taste, won’t I?"

Without turning around, Kurt laughs. “If you think I’m already done with you, you’re very much mistaken.”

"Because you like me," Blaine shouts after him; Kurt gives him the finger and Blaine chuckles to himself. Once Kurt has turned back down the road in the direction of his parked motorcycle, Blaine heads inside.

 _He fucking_   _likes me._

It’s just a matter of getting Kurt — brooding, sexy, untouchable Kurt — to admit it, freely and without elusion. And that all begins, Blaine decides, with getting into his head.

(A message comes in on his phone; Blaine reads it and groans — apparently, it all _really_  begins with getting Quinn off her fucking know-it-all high horse.)


End file.
